


Monday Night Date Night

by Emilys_List



Category: Glee
Genre: Date Night, Dirty Talk, Kid Fic, M/M, parenting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-26
Updated: 2015-11-26
Packaged: 2018-05-03 11:13:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5288549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emilys_List/pseuds/Emilys_List
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Monday nights have become their only night together, since they’re both blessed and cursed to be working on Broadway. They spend the whole day with the baby, then at night it’s time for each other. It’s his best shot at sex that isn’t an exhausted handjob.” Blaine, Kurt, and the joys of Monday Night Date Night.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Monday Night Date Night

**Author's Note:**

> Right up front: I know Allegra is a name more commonly associated with allergy medication, but once I fixed on it as a baby name, I couldn’t let it go. Two reasons: One. The name means cheer or joy… or GLEE? Irresistible. Two. It’s also a musical term that means lively tempo. Doubly irresistible. Forgive my foolhardy ways!
> 
> An embarrassingly large, hulking THANK YOU goes to [wowbright](http://archiveofourown.org/users/wowbright). I reached out as a fan of hers and she generously offered to beta since I’m new to the fandom. Her help has made this work infinitely more readable.

Kurt turns on the glow worm nightlight, the humidifier, and the Sleepytimes! playlist. Allegra looks back at him, still sobbing angry, indignant tears. His daughter’s little one-year-old face seems to say, 'How dare you leave me here?'

He drew the short straw tonight -- or, rather, the short peacock plume from the arrangement in the hall. Blaine gets to wait for their delivery order to arrive and then set up. Kurt, on the other hand, has a small dictator to answer to. He turns her playlist down and reads to her from _Where The Wild Things Are_ ; she listens with mild interest but as soon as he's closing the book she starts crying again. "Okay, okay," he murmurs. He turns the playlist off and sings quietly instead, picking her up and rocking her in his arms. He's in a play for the first time -- _Design for Living_ \-- and misses the grind of singing in a musical eight times a week, but he'll take this intimate cabaret setting and offers her his prized rendition of "Blackbird," then "'Till There Was You" from _The Music Man_. When he's done, he hears clapping from the other end of the baby monitor. Blaine must have turned on the intercom function. "That was beautiful. But don't I hear that enough at work?" he asks, his voice tinny and his question rhetorical. 

Kurt smiles at his daughter. Blaine has been playing Harold Hill for a year, but he’d never gotten to see it in person, since he was working or with the baby. Still, he’s heard strains of songs, mostly pronunciation rehearsals of “Ya Got Trouble” or breath control for “Seventy Six Trombones,” and he is always impressed. "It was inspired by Daddy, wasn't it? I had him in mind as I sang." He puts his face to the video monitor so his faux stare down can be seen by his husband. "I was thinking how nice it is to be him right now." He hears Blaine's laughing before he shuts off his end.

He rocks their baby girl, feeling tired because he's always tired, and smells the Thai restaurant downstairs, oil and basil and meat scents wafting upwards. Hell’s Kitchen is all Thai restaurants and it’s delicious.

He rocks their baby girl and wishes he could cook more often. He's never gotten used to how small their kitchen is, just appliances and a peninsula where ambitious cooking rarely happens. It's too bad. They're saving for something in Brooklyn where they can spread out and remodel. It's his most ardent daydream to have a six burner stove range and poured concrete countertops. A yard for Allegra. She's walking and he knows she'll be running soon.

Right now she's fighting sleep, and him, and starting to interfere with Monday Night Date Night, a newer tradition born of necessity. Pre-Allegra they could meet up for dinner after their shows, or get home at one AM and fuck against the wall. Sleep in late, brunch together, then get ready for work. Whatever they wanted, whenever they wanted. Post-Allegra is about savoring every second of time with her, or together as a couple, or alone. Savoring sleep. Kurt could drool over how much he’d love a nap most days.

Monday nights have become their only night together, since they’re both blessed and cursed to be working. They spend the whole day with the baby, then at night it’s time for each other. It’s his best shot at sex that isn’t an exhausted handjob.

He can’t even think about sex right now, though, since the baby is still fussing. It’s time to bust out the big guns.

_Friday night and the lights are low_  
_Looking out for the place to go_  
_Where they play the right music, getting in the swing_  
_You come in to look for a king_  
_Anybody could be that guy--_

“But, sweetie, you may not be looking for a king, and that’s okay,” he whispers as an addendum. “And you know what, don’t look for a king anyway, even if that’s how you’re oriented. Have fun dancing with your friends. You’ll be a Dancing Queen no matter what.” He hears Blaine’s laughter from the living room again and sighs loud enough to be heard. It’s working, though, and her eyelids are starting to droop.

During her pregnancy Rachel craved potato salad, rice pudding, and ABBA. It was nonstop, so much so that Jesse would beg them to come over so he could escape for a couple of hours; most times they were already on their way. He and Blaine would sit on the bed with Rachel and sing the ABBA catalogue to the baby. She’d try to harmonize and would get shut down, usually by Kurt. “She hears you talk and sing all day, we want her to hear us. Right, baby? It’s your Dad. Papa. Pop. Daddy.” He’d look to Blaine with helpless eyes as he tries to make sense of nomenclature and Blaine would smile, guiding them to another ABBA number.

Since then, it’s their secret weapon. He just doesn’t want to be singing it. He repeats the chorus twice and slides her into her crib, gently lowering her. “Goodnight, my love,” he whispers softly. “We love you so much.”

He clears the door and pumps the air with his fist, then does a little hip shaking. He’s celebrating so much it takes a second to realize what Blaine has done. Their coffee table is cleared save for a gorgeous spread of Greek food, candles, and a bottle of champagne. Blaine has his arms behind his back, bashful at his work, and Kurt surges forward to kiss him. When he’s done, for the moment, he asks, “Are you going to drink the whole bottle yourself?”

Blaine takes his hand with both of his and leads him to the table, to a floor cushion, and sinks down next to him. He pops the bottle and fills two flutes. “You can have one glass,” he says, his eyes pleading and teasing. “The baby's out for the night. And besides,” he says as he offers a glass. “Monday Night Date Night.”

“Monday Night Date Night,” Kurt agrees, and accepts the flute. “So is this, after long last, our ten year anniversary celebration finally in motion? It’s working for me.” He dishes out dinner onto both their plates, and they dig in. “I'm still advocating for Bora Bora," Blaine says for the thousandth time. Kurt shakes his head as he cuts into his chicken kebab and says slowly, and a little patronizingly, "With the baby. With your show still on." He puts a forkful in his mouth and he's so happy. He gives his husband a blissful smile. "Ohio, then?" Blaine asks with his mouth full.

Kurt doesn't feel like they need to do anything incredibly special for this anniversary, their tenth time around the calendar of when they began dating. "Having the baby is celebration enough. Plus, we really blew it out at the five year mark." He stirs a little at that, and Blaine presses a knee against his with a smirk. They'd spent two weeks in Cancun and Tulum, mostly naked and drunk, and high on poppers one night as they danced until morning. But that was pre-Allegra and steady jobs.

Kurt starts on his salad and thinks back to a decade ago. "What would we have imagined for a ten year anniversary, ten years ago?" he wonders. Blaine considers this, bopping his head back and forth, chewing on his lip. He steals an olive from Kurt's plate and says, "I think I would've wanted to kiss you on top of the Empire State Building."

Kurt thinks of that first kiss, the memory so worn out in his mind from replaying that it's grown hazy. That kiss, and the one after, and how they climbed into Kurt's backseat to keep making out and groping each other, only stopping because his dad called, wondering why the hell he was late for dinner. He kisses him now, not caring about the garlic. "Not that that’s not romantic and adorable, but -- that’s it?" he asks. Blaine scoffs and replies, "This from the guy who didn’t watch porn ten years ago." 

Kurt strokes his fingers down the hard plane of Blaine's chest, down the soft material of his worn NYU tee. "You were my porn ten years ago."

Blaine wrinkles his nose. "Did you just get kebab juices on my shirt?" Kurt shrugs and Blaine rolls his eyes, continuing, "If I did that to you, I'd be dead." Kurt wipes his entire hand down Blaine's shirt and he laughs. "So what would you have wanted to do? Besides not kiss me on top of the Empire State Building?"

Kurt considers it. "I would've liked that. But after a few days of dating you, my hunger turned me into a--" 

"Cockmonster," Blaine adds helpfully.

"Yes. Not. I wouldn't use that word. But yes. I would've wanted to push you against a wall and rub against each other until we both came. But, in Paris."

Blaine dips forward to kiss him hungrily and then says, "That’s an anniversary I can get behind. Or, in front of."

Two glasses of champagne in, lounging on the couch, and Kurt says, "Give me your list. For a theoretical threesome we'd never have."

Blaine blanches. "I don't have a list."

"Bullshit," Kurt spits out. Then, in the spirit of generosity, he goes first. "My first ever threesome fantasy absolutely included your brother." He takes a sip as Blaine freaks out. 

"Your fantasy is me having sex with my brother? That's disgusting."

Kurt tuts. "Even if it was my fantasy, which it's not, it's just a fantasy. What would Jonathan say?" Jonathan, their couples therapist who they see sporadically for tune ups. 

Blaine practices. He nods, takes a deep breath, and says, "Thank you for telling me about that fantasy, but I don't think it's for me." He gets a sloppy wet kiss as a reward, Kurt tugging him forward by his collar.

When he's done, Kurt elaborates. "I imagined it when I first met Cooper, with me in the middle. Very church and state." Blaine looks like he's trying to understand the logistics, but while he's cringing. 

"Where would I be?" he asks. 

"Oh, I'd be blowing you, and Coop would be fucking me," Kurt answers casually. Then it makes him giggle.

Blaine asks carefully, "So I'd be locking eyes with my brother while we both fuck you." Blaine is trying so hard to be cool with this, and it's so amusing. 

"You don't have to look at him. Maybe you're both wearing sunglasses." He giggles again. His neck is so loose and his head weighs nothing.

"And this is your pervasive threesome fantasy," Blaine asks flatly. 

Kurt purses his lips and rolls his head back and forth. "I will admit there have been other guest stars in the role." He's so glad they're in this place, where they can be honest about desire and not have it devolve into jealous yelling. They're open and honest, which is still hard, but not impossible. Kurt adds, "But my Coop fantasies are on permanent hiatus." He shakes his head to think of his brother-in-law in a non-physical way, his gorgeous face and body outweighed by his idiocy more and more. Last Thanksgiving he took Allegra out on the Anderson roof to show her where he used to crawl out to sneak cigarettes. Kurt had gone hoarse for how much he'd yelled about it after.

"Who're the guest stars?" Blaine asks, pulling him back. 

"Let's move on," he replies. "How about you?" Blaine shakes his head and tsks, waving his pointer finger like a no. Kurt takes a steadying drink of champagne from the bottle and gives the brief list: "Tom Hardy. Anderson Cooper. Jesse St. James, but only that one time when he was wearing leather pants." He's mortified even through his drunkenness and hides his face in Blaine's shoulder. "And it's not about sex with another person," he mumbles through the fabric. "Even in my fantasies I want to share things with you."

Blaine pulls his head up, his hands on Kurt's cheeks. "That's very sweet," he says, and then he's looking at him like he's someone else, someone new and exciting, maybe even a little dangerous and unknown. Blaine quirks an eyebrow and reaches a hand out to his hip, rounding to cup his ass, bringing him into his lap --

A cry on the baby monitor. They freeze and look intently at Allegra, where she can be checked up on via video. She fusses, but it downgrades to a whimper, then she's quiet again. They relax, but Kurt moves back into his own seat. He takes a final, draining pull from the bottle and says, "Now you."

Blaine licks his lips and smiles. He cocks his head to the side and watches Kurt for a beat before reaching out to stroke his arm, the one resting on the back of the couch. "Threesomes aren't really my thing. More like -- a bunch of people?" His voice goes high at the end. Kurt is surprised. In all of their years, he'd never mentioned this.

"Strangers?" Kurt asks. He shifts in his seat. 

Blaine shrugs, his hand on Kurt more assertive now. "Could be. That's not what I focus on."

"Am I there?" Kurt asks. 

"Of course. Even in my fantasies I want to have you, too," Blaine says, his tone a mix of sweet and dirty, and Kurt takes it exactly like that. 

He inches closer and leans in. "What's happening?" Kurt asks, full of good questions. 

"There are just people--"

"Women?"

"Men, all men," he says, dropping his honey roasted tone for an exasperated one. "God, Kurt, one time, and it was Rachel so it doesn't even really count anyway--"

"Ouch. Remind me to tell the mother of our child -- ow," Kurt says, wincing from Blaine's pinch. Despite the burl of a vendetta he's forming towards his husband, he can't help but kiss him, dragging his tongue along his swollen bottom lip. "Anyway, countless men?"

Blaine weighs the word in his mouth, "Countless." He shakes his head, his cheeks so pink. "Not -- not like a steady stream. Although. But, uh, no." He closes the distance between them and whispers into Kurt's neck, "What I imagine, when I imagine it, is men everywhere. Fucking my ass and in my mouth and rubbing up against me. Using me." 

Kurt's getting so hard. He rubs the back of Blaine's neck and asks, "Where am I?"

"Wherever you want to be." Blaine kisses his neck before sucking on it. The pressure aches and will leave a mark, but that's what stage makeup is for. 

Kurt's going stupid, he knows it, and offers, "What about multiple Kurts, all fucking you?"

Blaine pulls back, looking playful as he considers it, then taps his temple. "I can get down with that, thanks for that mental chocolate cake. Though, that doesn't seem very generous of you, when I let you have sex with my brother and Tom Hardy." 

Kurt puts a hand out and replies, "Though, not at the same time, let's be clear. I'm a married man." He rests that hand on his husband's chest again, so firm under his palm, then trails his fingers down all the way until he hits waistband. He unbuttons, unzips, he's so eager to blow Blaine --

"Would you want to make this happen?" Blaine asks. His tone is serious now, devoid of joking, and lifts Kurt's chin as he continues, "You and me and someone else? Or is this just Monday night date talk to get us going?"

Kurt actually shivers. The idea of it is enticing, there's no doubt, but he's right about it getting them going. That itself is enough. "I don't know. Do you hate it?"

Blaine strokes his cheek. "I think I'd be very jealous of someone else touching you. But it's also the hottest thing I can imagine, you and me and someone else, me watching you, us being watched.” Blaine punctuates his words by palming at his own dick, in his pants and over his briefs.

Kurt’s mouth feels suddenly so dry. He watches him in a trance, then asks, "And you? Should we arrange a bunch of..." He trails off. He can’t think.

Blaine is still touching himself and in a rough, fractured voice replies, "That seems difficult to produce, but if anyone can take on a production challenge, it's you, baby.” 

Kurt takes his eyes off of Blaine’s crotch and sweeps his fit body, that tousled hair, those golden hazel eyes. He knows the score. "I'm serious. When we go out, those rare times we go out, you could collect ten phone numbers, easily. All the looks you get." 

Blaine stops his hand and closes the distance between them again, unbuttoning Kurt’s shirt slowly, kissing skin as it’s revealed. Between kisses he says, "But then you get so territorial. A guy glances at me and you start with the roving hands and, I guess, dry humping?" He finishes with a kiss right above his belt buckle and looks up. "Mm, yeah, I do,” is the best Kurt can do in reply.

After that they’re pantsless, then all the way naked, and Blaine is whispering against his hipbone, “I'd say we have maybe an hour before she's up,” and Kurt is saying, “How many times can I make you come in an hour?”

Right now, what they want to happen or what will happen doesn’t matter. They’re still young, and married, and in love. Their future is open and bright, and they’re in it together.

The answer, incidentally, is three.

/end.


End file.
